“I think our son actually wants to do good in the world,” George responded with a bit of awe in his voice, because doing good beyond tossing a few bucks to a charity had never really occurred to him.

“Again, we’re not talking about that situation right now. I’m talking about your offer to pay for the rehearsal dinner and the tent! The accepted wedding rules say the dinner the night before is on us. But why did you throw in the tent! Do you have any idea what tents cost?”

“Honey, please,” George said, nodding toward the cabdriver, who was both speeding and playing with his phone.

“He has those ear birds in. Or earbuds. Whatever they’re called. George, we can barely afford to go to a wedding in Montecito, never mind host a wedding in Montecito!”

“I made a small gesture. Dinner and a tent, that’s it,” said the king of small gestures.

“You pay no attention to our finances, but somehow you feel you’ve earned the right to be extravagant,” Abigail hissed. She had held her tongue for most of the last five years, quietly mopping up the messes George made, overly enthusiastic when his bridge-playing pivot earned dividends. She really didn’t want to be a shrew about money. She didn’t deserve to be forced into that role, she thought. “We haven’t been to a fundraiser in three years, but yes, let’s lavish a wedding tent on a family we barely know.”

“Here we go again,” George mocked, as if every day they had conversations about weddings. “You’re the one hosting an engagement party. Can we afford that?”

“Not really. That’s why it’s ninety minutes long, with limited drink options and roasted nuts. No beef tenderloin, no French cheeses. Roasted nuts, George! That I bought in bulk at Costco and will heat up before serving so they seem special. Just nuts!”

“Just relax.”

There would be no relaxing for Abigail Blakeman. The entire plan laid out tonight was counter to everything she believed in: politics, California, ethnic food at a wedding. She was in a full-blown panic. How had her dull, predictable, easy life spun so out of control? “George, take a guess at the cost of that tent at the Silliman School fundraiser years ago. The beautiful white one with the lights, the dance floor, the sides in case of rain or cold?”

“Five grand. Tops.”

“Sure, for the scaffolding to hold the tent up. Try twenty-five grand with labor, lighting, the sides, the heaters, the dance floor. And that wasn’t even the best tent they offered. One with the florals and the twinkle light entrance. Slap the modifier ‘wedding’ in front of anything and the cost goes up another ten percent.”